Yes, he did – Graeme knew everything about fixings, and called Michael ‘Mikey’. Michael had spoken to Graeme several times, and the impression he’d always got was that Graeme knew a lot about every item in the store, because he was one of those men who did every job in his own house, by himself, with infinite patience and total success. He had a soft Scottish accent, and a habit of looking at your toes before his eyes travelled slowly up to your chin, as if he was assessing your weight for a hanging. If they had to do something together, like yard work or unloading, Graeme would always encourage him.

‘Try to get under it, Mikey,’ he’d say. ‘Oh, no, no – hold the edge. To you, a little. Turn it! Oh…’

He always seemed disappointed. Sometimes he operated the big power-saw in the special cutting booth, and he did it so carefully. He’d been trained to slice sheets of chipboard, and Michael nurtured a guilty hope that one day there would be an accident, and he’d have the pleasure of picking up Graeme’s severed hand.

‘Is this yours, Graeme?’ he’d say. ‘Where do you want it?’

Why would he ever call upon a man like Graeme? And as for the big man who’d wanted Instafix, Michael wondered what he’d done to upset him, really? All he’d wanted was to help. Of course, it occurred to him that the man might have received bad news moments before their encounter, or been in the middle of the worst confrontation with his wet-eyed partner, or lost a vast sum of money, or a chance of promotion – or a baby, even… there were a hundred thousand things that could collapse and make you yearn to stabilise yourself by lashing out at a random stranger.

Still, it hurt – and he was still mouthing the man’s words, here on the train.

It hurt as he cycled home, and it hurt more because he felt so foolish for being hurt. What should he have said? What shouldn’t he have said? Or was the root of the problem simply his idiot, irritating face that invited abuse? Should he go to work in a mask, and speak through a tube?

They changed his shifts the next week.

They didn’t consult him: suddenly he was on six-thirty starts. Suddenly he only had thirty hours instead of the thirty-eight he needed. The next week it was twenty-six: just over two hundred pounds for the week, with so many debts to service. The spores of poverty, there on your fading clothes.

Work in a pub: bar staff required.

Work in a café.